


Anything but the Best

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Suit Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-28 13:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: “You thought I looked hot in the suit,” Peter says, as if it’s obvious. “It seemed like my chance.”





	Anything but the Best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tuesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/gifts).



> Hi! Okay, so, when I picked you up as a PH I was planning to include porn in the time loop idea, but then that didn’t end up happening. So I decided to write you a short extra thing because this ship deserves porn, and because Peter/Tony + suits = OT3. But then it ended up being almost 4,000 words, so not all that short, even. Whoops ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> TL;DR: Have some smut. I really hope you enjoy, because this was a delight to write!

Tony brushes the shoulders on Peter’s suit, trying very hard not to think about how broad and firm the body underneath the fabric has gotten. The kid — not really a kid anymore, his mind unhelpfully points out — is almost as tall as him now, and he fills out the tailor-made suit perfectly, as a glance in the dressing room mirror a few feet away confirms. Peter smiles shyly back at him in the reflection, straightening his back and toying with a button.

“You look great,” Tony assures him, allowing his hands to linger unnecessarily. “Perfect.”

The back of Peter’s neck flushes bright red, and Tony feels something in his gut twitch. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that this is not a crush. It’s the perfectly normal attraction any red-blooded male would have to a hot twenty-two-year-old. (A hot twenty-two-year-old who for some reason seems to prefer spending his weekends in the lab with that red-blooded male to partying with his college friends, who’s frighteningly brilliant, whose goofy texts always make that red-blooded male smile, who —

Nope. Not a crush.)

Peter is still observing himself in the mirror, twisting side to side. The suit really is perfect; the cut compliments his slender figure, the dark grey fabric Tony selected is sophisticated but not showy. The white button down Peter is wearing under it is a little boring, but that’s easy enough to fix. Tony makes a mental list of colored dress shirts to buy before they leave the store.  

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, and Tony can’t tell if it’s for the compliment or the suit. “But you do know I’m going to be wearing a robe over this, right? No one’s even going to be able to see it.”

Tony shrugs, hands trailing down Peter’s back. To smooth the suit. Obviously. “Yeah, but I’ll know, and you’ll know. You’re not graduating from MIT in anything but the best. Besides, you take the robe off at some point, right?”

Peter shrugs. “Maybe? You should know, you’re the one who’s done this before.”

“If you think I went to my graduation, you’ve really missed the memo on the kind of person I used to be,” Tony corrects him.

Peter spins, and suddenly his face is way, _way_ too close, sparkling eyes filling Tony’s vision. 

He inhales sharply and forces himself to run down the list of reasons he cannot, absolutely _cannot_ , act on any of the images flashing through his mind. It starts with the obvious: they’re in a dressing room in one of the most exclusive high-end stores in New York. Then it jumps to the fact that Peter’s probably not even interested, because he’s a hot college senior with a whole campus of other hot young people to screw, before swerving quickly past the potential PR disaster — which, if Tony’s being honest, has never stopped him from doing anything — and ends on the most important point: Peter deserves more than a middle-aged mess who’s never managed to make a relationship last.

That’s what he focuses on to stop himself from staring back into those eyes, warm pools of delight he could drown in for hours if he let himself.

“Wait, so this is your first MIT graduation, too?” Peter asks, clearly pleased with the idea.

Tony hates to destroy the illusion, but he’s also well past the point where he’s willing to lie to Peter if he can help it, not when he’s one of the few people left he actually feels comfortable being honest with. So he shakes his head, explaining that he’s given a few commencement speeches since his good ol’ days as a teenaged ne’er-do-well. “But it is the first one where I actually care about one of the graduates,” he offers.

Peter ducks his head, blush spreading up his cheeks. It’s astonishing how, even seven years in, the slightest hint of a compliment is enough to make him melt. As if Tony hasn’t made it stupidly clear a million times over that he thinks the young man standing in front of him is one of the most extraordinary people he’s ever met.

(It’s _totally_ not a crush.)

Resisting the urge to reach out and tilt Peter’s chin up, Tony adjusts the suit instead, fussing with the lapels unnecessarily, hands drifting dangerously close to Peter’s neck. It would be so easy to curl his fingers around the back of his head, guide him closer —

He clears his throat. “I’m proud of you, kid. You know that, right?” There. That seems like the kind of thing a reasonable, respectable mentor would say in this situation.

Peter glances at him, pleased smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I know, Mr. Stark.”

“Well, good.” Tony pauses, trying to figure out what to say next. It’s not normal for him to be at a loss for words, but everything that comes to mind — _So, are you excited?_ or maybe _Got any big plans for senior week?_ — sounds banal.

Peter fills in the silence with a comment that completely knocks him out of his train of thought: “Your heart is beating really fast.”

It’s said quietly, but with an intensity and purpose that makes Tony’s entire body freeze. “Oh?” he manages to choke out.

“Yeah,” Peter confirms, taking a small step forward, erasing what little room was left between them. He presses his hand against Tony’s chest. “I can hear it.”

“Ah.” His entire world collapses into the feel of those fingers spreading across his heart, burning hot even through the fabric of his t-shirt. Suddenly, the room is too warm. He wants to shrug his blazer off, but can’t bring himself to move. “Kinda creepy power you got there, kid.”

“Maybe.” Peter smirks, self-assured in a way Tony doesn’t recognize. It looks good on him. “But it’s also very useful.”

“For fighting crime?” Tony asks, even though that’s clearly not what he’s talking about.

“Among other things,” Peter murmurs, and then his mouth is on Tony’s, kissing warm and deep. His arms slide around his back, under the blazer.

He knows what he’s doing, part of Tony’s brain registers, with a spike of jealousy for whatever person taught Peter how to flick his tongue like that, to part his lips just enough to tantalize. But then Peter’s hands slip under his t-shirt and the thought disappears in a jolt of arousal. Doesn’t matter. What matters is those hands running up his back. His rapidly hardening erection rubs against Peter’s thigh and he hears himself groan; Peter squeezes his shoulders in response, nails digging so deep they’re sure to leave marks.

Tony forces himself to break the kiss, but doesn’t back away. Couldn’t possibly. “Kid,” he says, and is surprised to find himself breathless. “What’s happening?”

“What do you think is happening?” Peter replies, using the opportunity to remove Tony’s blazer, which he lets him do without objection. “Unless I’m misreading things? But I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

Stunned at the boldness, Tony watches as the blazer is tossed with perfect accuracy onto the single chair in the dressing room. A room which, until a minute ago, he would have said was rather large, but now seems impossibly small, the scent of Peter’s sweat — and cologne? Yeah, definitely cologne. How had he not noticed that before? — filling the air.

Peter grabs Tony’s waist and yanks him close, rubbing erection against erection; Tony gasps, shot through with desire.

“Yeah, didn’t think I was misreading,” Peter whispers, somewhere between triumph and challenge, and then his mouth is on Tony’s again, more insistent this time, nipping his bottom lip.

Tony brings his hands to Peter’s face, holding him close as they kiss, amazed at how easy it feels. How right.

(Just a red-blooded male — )

“Okay,” he mutters between kisses. “But — what — I mean —” He pushes Peter back long enough to ask, “What is this?”

Peter’s eyebrows tug together like he doesn’t understand the question. “Does it matter?”

Tony wants to say yes. Of course it does. It matters because this isn’t some random hot stranger he can fuck for a night and then discard, comforting himself with the idea that they got a good lay and a better story out of it. This is _Peter_ , the kid who blew him away with his bravery and his kindness the moment they met, who he watched die and then moved the universe to get back.

But then Peter starts sucking on his neck and the protest dies, along with most of his ability to think at all, flood of want crowding out whatever shred of self-restraint he had left.

He links his fingers through the belt buckles of that gorgeous, dangerous suit and drags them toward one side of the dressing room, turning so Peter lands against the wall. Tony presses against him, kissing desperately, intoxicated by the soft moans he lets out, marveling at the strength and tone of his muscles, clear even through layers of fabric. Peter wriggles out of his jacket, throwing it to the side with abandon, several thousand dollars discarded on the floor. Tony could not care less.

Then his hands are at Tony’ belt, nimble fingers unbuckling it even while they kiss and _fuck_ , where did he learn to do that? And also — _fuck_ , he can’t believe he’s about to say this but: “Isn’t this a little fast?”

Peter’s hands still. He breaks the kiss. “I didn’t think fast was a problem for you,” he says, and this time vulnerability leaks into his tone, betraying his attempt to project confidence. Tony’s heart crumples when he realizes there’s hurt in his eyes.

“I wasn’t worried about me.”

“Oh. Well, in that case.” Those amazing fingers start moving again, tugging the belt free and dropping it with a determined ease. “Fast isn’t a problem for me, either, Mr. Stark.”

Hearing his name like that, out of those lips, in this context — it shouldn’t be the thing that does it, but it is. With a growl he grabs Peter’s shirt and rips it open, sending buttons flying.

“Hey!” Peter protests, even as he starts dragging Tony’s tee over his head in return. “That was my nicest shirt.”

“I’ll buy you another one,” Tony promises, raising his arms to let Peter pull his shirt all the way off. It’s added to the growing pile of clothing on the floor, along with what’s left of Peter’s button down. He pauses to admire the curves of Peter’s muscles, hard and defined, tracing his hand across his abs. Peter’s dick twitches in response, a wet spot blooming, obvious even against the dark fabric of his pants. “And pay for dry-cleaning.”

Peter looks down. A flush spreads across his chest when he notices what Tony’s talking about. His nipples stand out against the faint pink background, small and hard. Impulsively, Tony rubs a finger over the left nipple; Peter sucks sharply, hips thrusting into nothing. Tony repeats the action, then experimentally squeezes. Peter throws his head back with a moan, dark spot growing larger.

“Fuck,” he gasps as Tony keeps going, switching to the right nipple. “That feels — really —” He bucks again, humping against the air, breath coming in short bursts until suddenly he catches Tony’s wrist, pushing it away.

Immediately Tony’s stomach clenches in worry. He tries to step back but Peter hauls him forward, chest to chest, and nuzzles into his shoulder.

“That felt really good, Mr. Stark,” he whispers against Tony’s skin, the brush of his lips sending goosebumps down his back. “It’s just — with my powers — I was — I didn’t want to ruin the suit.”

Ah, right. The whole dialed-to-eleven thing. Tony had never considered how that might manifest in this situation, but now that the idea’s entered his mind, it’s the only thing he can think about. He runs his fingers through Peter’s hair, and observes how he shivers in his arms. Interesting. Very interesting. That’ll be fun to play with at some point.

Except — wait, _at some_ point? When did his brain decide this is a thing that’s going to happen again?

He inhales deeply, pressing his lips against the top of Peter’s head. “You okay?” he asks into his hair.

Peter huffs something that might be a laugh and kisses his neck lightly before nodding. “Okay is underselling it.”

Oh god. They’re definitely going to do this again, aren’t they?

Well, he’s Tony Stark. If there’s one thing he knows about himself, it’s that once he commits to a stupid idea, he really commits. With a surge of spontaneous affection, he drops to his knees.

“Mr. Stark, you don’t have to —” Peter begins, but he trails off into a moan as Tony rubs his dick, pressing hard through the suit fabric.

“Trust me, kid, I know I don’t _have_ to do anything.” He moves to unbutton the pants, which are extremely wet by this point. He really will have to get them dry cleaned. Good thing graduation is still weeks away. “In fact, I shouldn’t be doing any of this.”

With a swift, practiced motion he pulls down the pants and Peter’s ratty boxers in one movement, making a mental note to add proper briefs to the shopping list. Silk, preferably. Peter’s cock springs free, standing hard against his stomach, straining and red, as impossibly amazing as everything else about him.

“Fuck, kid,” Tony groans out involuntarily, and the cock that’s so alluringly close twitches in response. He looks up to see Peter gazing down, lip caught nervously between his teeth, as if waiting for further confirmation that Tony likes what he sees. He can provide that, gladly. “You’re perfect.”

Peter lets out something close to a squeak, knees buckling, hand falling to Tony’s head, fingers lacing into his hair in what Tony suspects is an attempt to catch his balance. All that, and he hasn’t even started sucking him off yet.

Mindful of exactly how overwhelmed Peter appears to be, he places his hands on his hips, pushing him firmly against the wall. Only then does he move to his dick, licking from the thick base, buried in gentle curls, all the way to the leaking head. Peter’s hand tightens in his hair and he gasps, eyes squeezing closed.

“Too much?” Tony asks, but Peter shakes his head enthusiastically.

“Definitely not. Definitely, definitely not.”

Pleased, Tony decides to go for it. He has a feeling Peter isn’t going to last much longer, anyway. With a deep inhale he takes him in his mouth. He’s not too large, and Tony’s done this quite a few times in his life, so he swallows him entirely, and is rewarded with a strangled cry of pure elation.

He begins to move his head up and down in slow strokes, the tang of precome filling his mouth. The sounds Peter makes — high and gasping, almost pained — go straight to his dick, which strains against the confines of his jeans. Peter’s fingers twist into his hair, yanking. The pain mixes with arousal, keeping him focused.

He picks up the pace. With a whimper, Peter jerks forward, breaking Tony’s grip on his hips. He chokes and leans back long enough to catch his breath, but immediately moves his hands around to Peter’s ass, gripping the soft, firm flesh, pulling forward, urging him to keep going. Peter seems to get the message, because he thrusts again, and again, driving into Tony’s mouth with an eager, irregular rhythm.

He’s going hard and fast, whining in pleasure, so high he can barely be heard; Tony strokes his thighs and ass encouragingly, sucking in air through his nose, concentrating on relaxing. It’s rough, he can feel tears prickling in the sides of his eyes as he struggles to get enough air. But he takes it all happily, because it’s _Peter_ whose fingers are scraping desperately against his scalp, dick hitting the back of his throat with increasing speed. He’d give him whatever he wants and call himself lucky.

“Fuck,” Peter gasps out. “Mr. Stark, I’m gonna —”

He doesn’t finish the thought, climaxing with a yell, warm come spilling salty in Tony’s mouth. He swallows, smiling to himself as Peter rides out his high with stuttering shallow thrusts and a stream of curses that are both unexpected and unbearably hot.

When he’s finally done, Peter pulls out and immediately sinks to the ground, curling into an exhausted pile. His hair is plastered against his head and he’s breathing heavily, face red, looking almost exactly as if he just ended a hard fight.

Well, except for the part where he’s completely naked. Which is. Wow. Something Tony could look at forever.

Tony shifts from kneeling to sitting, grateful that the dressing room floor is covered in a thick carpet. He scoots forward until he can encircle Peter in his arms, burying his nose in his hair, inhaling deeply. Whatever shampoo he uses smells fantastic, vanilla mingling with the scent of sweat and sex. Tony’s dick twitches, painfully constrained in his pants, but he ignores it. As much as his body longs for release, that’s not what matters right now. What matters is making sure Peter is happy, that this wasn’t too much —

Peter apparently has other ideas, because his hand moves to Tony’s groin, cupping him through his jeans.

“Kid, you don’t have to —” Peter tightens his grip and the world goes white around the edges.

“Trust me, Mr. Stark, I know I don’t _have_ to do anything.” He catches Tony’s eye and gives him an amused smile, clearly pleased with himself for quoting Tony’s words back at him. He undoes Tony’s jeans far enough to slide into his underwear. His hand brushes Tony’s dick and the room seems to tilt off its axis as his entire body sings with want. “In fact, I shouldn’t be doing any of this, right?”

He rubs the tip of Tony’s cock, wetting his hand with precome. Tony falls forward with a groan, head sinking into Peter’s shoulder.

Peter’s free arm comes around, holding Tony steady as he jerks him off with firm confidence, each stroke a new jolt of stimulation bursting through his system. It’s really, really hard to remember why he ever said this was anything except an incredible idea. It takes less than a minute until he’s coming, spilling over Peter’s hand with a yell so loud it must attract attention in the store. Whatever. He can pay them to keep quiet about it.

The haze of orgasm fades quickly, and as the room swims back into focus he realizes Peter’s arm is still around him. He straightens enough to look him in the face, and is surprised to find the eyes that meet his are worried. Frowning, he strokes a few stray wisps of hair off of Peter’s forehead and asks, “Kid, what’s wrong? Was that too much?”

Peter looks startled at the suggestion. “No. No, Mr. Stark, that was great.”

“It feels like you should call me Tony now.” He grazes his knuckles down Peter’s arm, finding his hand and weaving their fingers together. “Not that the ‘Mr. Stark’ thing doesn’t have its appeal, but — time and place.”

“Tony.” Peter says it hesitantly, rolling it around in his mouth like it’s a new flavor he’s never tried before. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. So, does that mean we’re good?”

“Good?” It takes Tony a moment to put that comment together with the nervousness in his eyes, and then it hits him: somehow, ridiculously, Peter is worried _he_ might not be okay with what just happened. “Yeah. Yes. Of course. Of course we’re ‘good.’ At least, I am, if you are.”

“Me?” Peter’s expression morphs into the one he gets whenever Tony says something he thinks is really dumb. It’s usually reserved for good-natured fights about movies or the relative quality of various pizza joints, and it’s disorienting to see it on a face flushed and sweaty from everything they were just doing. “Of course _I_ am. I’m the one who started it.”

“That doesn’t necessarily follow, but I’m glad to hear it.” Something loosens in Tony’s chest, an anxious knot he hadn’t realized he was carrying. “Why _did_ you start it? Out of curiosity.”

“You thought I looked hot in the suit,” Peter says, as if it’s obvious. “It seemed like my chance.”

“Your ‘chance’?” Tony echoes, astonished.

“Yeah, I mean, how often do you get _Tony Stark_ looking at you like that, right?” He shrugs, as if this is a completely reasonable, not at all totally insane thing to say. He drops Tony’s hand, reaching to pick up his destroyed shirt. Before he can put it on Tony seizes his shoulder.

“Kid, eyes on me,” he demands. Peter obeys, nervous blush creeping up his neck. “Since you’ve somehow missed it, I want to be very clear about something: when you’re Peter Parker, Tony Stark looks at you like that literally one hundred percent of the time.”

Peter drops the shirt and gapes at him, making a few incoherent, “Uh,” and “Whats,” before finally settling on, “Wait, really?”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to look at him like he’s dumb. “Yes, really. Have you noticed yourself in the mirror lately?” And then, because that sounds more lecherous than he intended, he adds, “Plus, you’re — you. Peter Parker. Spider-Man. Valedictorian at MIT. Willing to put up with me. You’re amazing, kid.”

As he says it, he realizes he was right all along. This isn’t a crush. 

It runs a lot deeper than that.  

That’s something he’ll have to process another day. Because right now, Peter’s staring at him like he just offered him the Spider-suit all over again.

“But — then why did you say we shouldn’t be doing this?” he asks slowly, as if trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle. “And don’t tell me it’s because I’m too young, because I won’t believe that.” 

“No, it’s not that,” Tony agrees. “I mean, a bit. But mostly —” He thinks about his list, trying to figure out how to sum it up. “Well, mostly it’s that I’m me.” He holds up a hand against the protest he knows is coming, the one that goes _but you’re Tony Stark_ , as if that’s a good thing. “And me being me isn’t good for you.”

Peter’s face softens, radiating understanding, as if he isn’t entirely surprised to hear that answer. He leans over and places a kiss on Tony’s lips; chaste, impossibly gentle, so sweet it knocks Tony’s breath away more thoroughly than anything else that’s happened in this dressing room. “Don’t you think I should get to decide that for myself?”

Tony sighs. This needs to be a longer conversation, later, but he can already tell it’s one he’s going to let himself lose. Because he really, really wants to be wrong. And, hey, maybe he is. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Okay,” he agrees. “You’re a big kid now, I guess you get to make your own stupid mistakes. Even if those mistakes are me.”

Peter beams, giving him another kiss before scrambling to his feet and beginning to pull on his clothing. When he gets to the jacket he holds it up admiringly.

“I do look good in this suit, though,” he muses.

“Oh yeah,” Tony agrees. “You certainly do. Frankly, it’s basically a graduation gift to myself.”

“Hmm.” Peter carefully places the jacket over the back of the chair, then tosses Tony his blazer with a mischievous grin. “Well, in that case, I feel like I’m owed another present.”

“Getting greedy, Mr. Parker?” Tony drags himself to his feet, knees complaining. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

Peter covers the distance between them in a second, arms wrapping around Tony’s neck, eyes dancing dangerously. “Oh, don’t worry, _Mr. Stark_. I have plenty of ideas, starting with this one.”

And then they’re kissing again, and Tony decides he’s going to love every idea Peter has.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved and cherished.
> 
> Re-dated because this was an exchange fic, and now authors have been revealed. Sorry if you'd seen it already!


End file.
